


Et in Arcadia Ego

by quercus



Series: No Resolution [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-07
Updated: 1999-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/quercus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully assist the NTSB and FAA as they investigate a UFO sighting by a commercial airliner, while Krycek remains in Ireland. Conclusion to No Resolution and Perestroika.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Et in Arcadia Ego

County Rosscommon, Ireland

The sky above me incandesces, and I remember being taken. I hate that word: taken. So passive. I am not, by nature or nurture, a passive man. Quite the contrary. There are times I school myself to wait, to prepare, to pause before the action. But those are choices. I would never choose to be taken.

Another glow. Mulder would love this. I actually wish he were here, even though he'd be an enormous pain in the ass. Still, it's my ass, and he's been a lovely pain in there over the years.

Yet another. Still no one on the ground appears to notice. Well, no one to notice, really, except a few cows, perhaps another kind of fox, and the odd peasant. Odd being the operative word. I'm really not cut out for pastoral life.

Here I am, though, in ultima Thule, awaiting instructions while I watch those who would be my next masters perform what look to be tricks in the sky. It's been hinted to me that there are other reasons for their behavior, all this jetting around and dramatic lighting; some think that the alien craft use Ireland's abundant stone-age rock monuments as navigational beacons. Personally, I think that's as likely as cosmonauts on Mir using a needle floating in water for a compass.

I think they just like to show off, creepy little fuckers.

And that's an eleven on the ten-point scale. If there were anyone around to see that, they'd be calling USA Today, or the Irish equivalent. But I'm all alone, sitting on a cold and rather sharp rock, taking notes for my human masters. Creepy little fuckers.

I really do wish Mulder were here. I can barely remember the last time I saw him. Podunk, Maryland, with Scully in the next room. He was obedient and sweet, and I think I need to adjust my jeans here. Ow. Jesus.

And another big flash. I bet that's it for tonight. I'm reduced to betting with myself about how long these displays will last, that's how fucking bored I am. How much longer will they make me stay here? What are their reasons? Is this really important information I'm collecting, or have they just parked me here to get me out of the way?

No, I was wrong. Another one, but not nearly as flamboyant. Maybe they'll go home now, now that they've impressed all these Hibernian bovine.

I crack jokes to myself to keep from screaming. I know that at any moment that terrible light could fall on me like a weight from heaven and everything would be wrenched away from me: consciousness, place, time. For some indeterminable length of time, I would hover in non-existence. Been there, done that, never want to do it again. Out here, alone, no one would ever know what happened to me. Mulder might wonder, I suppose. If I'm lucky, maybe he'd occasionally jerk off to my memory. That would be my memorial: semen washed down a shower drain.

That's it; I'm hiking back to the tumbledown shanty my sleeping bag and space heater are in and dreaming of Mulder. This is bullshit.

Mulder stares intently at Skinner, trying not to convey how badly he wants this assignment approved. Scully stands quietly next to him; he can hear her soft breaths in the silence of Skinner's office. Skinner himself is seated at his desk, apparently engrossed in the 302 Mulder has prepared. The brilliant late summer light outside his window forces Mulder to squint slightly and has thrown Skinner's downturned face into shadow.

Finally, Skinner sighs, pushes back from his desk, and looks up at his two subordinates. His face is expressionless, or perhaps very slightly stern. He studies first Scully, then Mulder, his eyes flicking between them. Another deep breath, then he drops his eyes.

"I'll consider this, Agent Mulder. Please return to your current assignment."

Mulder cannot help but make a tiny sound of frustration; Scully jerks her head in warning at him, and Skinner's eyes narrow behind his glasses. "Agents." The word is a warning and a dismissal. For a heartbeat more, Mulder continues to stare intently at his supervisor, then he nods his head and turns to go, holding the door for Scully. As she exits, he turns back briefly. Skinner is staring back at him. If there's a message in his gaze, Mulder cannot decipher it. Then he obeys and follows his partner.

Only when they're safely alone behind closed elevator doors does he speak, but before the first expletive leaves his lips, Scully puts her hands on his shoulders. He is startled by this gesture, so startled that he falls silent. Her laser blue eyes study him, and then she says, too quietly for all but the most sophisticated microphone to pick up, "Let it go. Just let it go, Mulder." He stares down at Scully, puzzled and a little annoyed, but he trusts her -- _mirabile dictu_, after all these years, someone he trusts -- and nods. A curt nod, conveying his irritation, but also his agreement.

Scully immediately removes her hands from his shoulders, but Mulder, cantankerous, takes her hand in his and swings her arm as the elevator doors open and they return to his basement office. To his pleasure, he hears Scully's giggle as she trots to keep up; when he twists his head back, he sees she's flushed and smiling. He relaxes a little. The case is compelling; Skinner will come through.

It's almost five when Mulder hears the elevator ping. He raises his head from the tedium of the budget proposal he's working on and pulls his glasses off. Scully is in the lady's room, preparing herself to fight the traffic home. But when the office door is pushed open, Skinner enters.

He's too big for the basement, Mulder thinks, and then wonders what that says about him, that the basement has become his refuge and hideaway. Skinner stands awkwardly in the doorway, looking around. Since Fowley and Spender's departure, Mulder has spent time, thought, and some money to create a niche for himself and Scully, a little shrine of posters and pictures and charts and purported leavings from alien visitations, commemorating their odd interests and dangerous successes. He slowly stands, hanging his glasses from the desk lamp.

The two men study each other in the dim light. Down the hall, a toilet flushes; pink blooms in Skinner's face and he steps away from the door. Only when Scully returns, a startled "Sir" inadvertently escaping her, and has moved to Mulder's side, does Skinner speak.

"I've reviewed your proposal," he tells them. His voice sounds -- different, to Mulder. Not hesitant. Uncertain? Almost shy. "I am extremely reluctant to assign this case to you, even though it unquestionably lies within your areas of expertise. It would mean sending you to Gum Springs, at least for a day or two." He pauses briefly. "After all that's happened," he adds in a softer voice.

He is uncertain, Mulder realizes, studying his boss carefully. He himself is embarrassed by their shared and shameful knowledge: that Mulder is sleeping with Krycek. Well, being fucked by Krycek. Or had been, until Krycek and Scully had been magicked to Ireland, where presumably Krycek remains, incommunicado.

Scully's been taken twice in Gum Springs. This knowledge is shared, too, and feared by all three. Skinner and Mulder had lost time, lost each other, and a part of themselves in Gum Springs. Mulder knew that Skinner would not want to approve this investigation, that he would be disinclined to put his agents in such peril again.

But their role this time would be mandated by the National Transportation Safety Board; all NTSB investigations are assisted by the FBI. Mulder's proposal was that he and Scully be assigned the NTSB liaisons for this case. A Swissair Boeing 747 had, en route from Philadelphia to Tampa, encountered an unidentified flying object just sixteen miles east of Gum Springs. First word from the NTSB was that it was a weather balloon, but the time of day, size, and lighting indicated otherwise. Furthermore, the pilot, co-pilot, and flight engineer had all seen the object and insisted it was not a weather balloon. With more than thirty thousand hours of flying time among the three, their statement provided compelling evidence contrary to the NTSB's judgment.

From a handwritten note attached to the 302, Skinner knows that a friend of Mulder's at the Center for UFO Studies had requested he look into the case. Since an FBI agent would necessarily be assigned to the investigation, Mulder's interest and background make him ideal.

Except Skinner doesn't want him to go back to Gum Springs. Not even for a day or two.

Still standing next to the door, swimming in the remembrance of things done and said in this office, Skinner closes his eyes. Mulder watches him closely. This case is important to Mulder, for several reasons. Most obviously, he wants to know what the Swissair crew saw that afternoon. But he also wants to know if Skinner trusts him enough to let him go back to Gum Springs. After everything that's happened there, Mulder fears Skinner will keep him in DC under some personal house arrest for his own safety. But Skinner also knows that Krycek has been in Gum Springs. Mulder still hopes to see Krycek again; his body longs for Krycek's touch, to convulse and twitch under his abusive loving, the oxymoron of desire and fear that twins Mulder to Krycek so compellingly.

Finally, Skinner opens his eyes and throws the proposal on the table Scully uses as a desk. "It's approved," he says shortly, his voice hoarse. "Be goddam careful, Agents." He leaves abruptly, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Mulder looks at Scully. She's pale and wide-eyed, and he sees her throat move as she swallows. "You don't have to go," he starts to say, but her eyes narrow and her lips thin.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow," she tells him. "It's supposed to be cooler, so bring a jacket." She leaves him, her heels clicking more faintly as she, too, goes. Mulder puts his face in his hands and rubs his eyes, stretches his back, and sighs heavily.

Oh, Jesus. Where is Alex?

Aran Islands, Ireland

Winning does not tempt that man. This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings.

Rilke wrote that. Not that I've read Rilke in years, but those words have remained with me. A comfort, somehow, after losing so much.

It's dawn. The light here is immense; it fills the sky and expands the horizon. The clarity is a comfort, too, at least on still days. The wind is back today, though; that means no light show tonight, and I am grateful. I stand on the edge of an escarpment, looking out to the sea. West, always west. I lean forward, relying on the wind's strength to hold me upright. My hair flies around my face, dampened by the blown sea spray. The air rushes into my nose and mouth, filling my lungs like helium, and I feel light, as light as the light glowing around me.

I've been here for six weeks, at my masters' desire. I observe, take measurements of what little physical evidence the visitors leave, and wait. I've found localized injuries to plant life here: sea pinks damaged by microwave radiation; samphire and bladder campion mutated by ionizing radiation; saxifrage and spring gentians crushed by enormous pressure.

Sometimes my compass spins like a dervish, and sometimes it points other than north. A shovel was suddenly magnetized one night; a magnet lost its power. Several times, all the hair on my body stood straight out while the air smelled of blue ozone. I wonder whether my DNA is unraveling, de-helixing itself in fear and ionization. Perhaps I shall die not by Mulder's hand but of the cancer that eats us alive, creeping into us from the toxins we ingest and breathe and watch.

I'm walking to Dun Onaght today, enjoying the battering wind as I step through the bloody cranesbill that covers the pastures. It's a big stone fort at the top of a tall cliff; inside it, the clochans of the Celts still stand, as they have since Neolithic times.

I'm not sure what to expect at Dun Onaght. If anyone asks, I'm a tourist, guidebook in hand, backpack stuffed with granola bars, apples, and bottled water. But no one will ask. I feel as though I can see the entire island of Inisheer as I march along the weathered path of cows and red deer.

I wear a needle under the collar of my soft leather coat. Since I've been here, I've learned that this will keep ghosts and fairies away. Every so often I finger it and smile; to this I am reduced.

There's the Dun. Oh god, it's barren. Whatever will happen here, whatever will happen to me, no one else will know or see. I am as alone as Adam before God pitied him and made him an helpmeet.

Mulder. I touch the needle again, for luck. Oh, Mulder.

To Mulder's shock and indignation, Skinner picks him up the next day, Scully riding shotgun. She flashes him a sympathetic look as Skinner pops the trunk for him. Only after he's settled his duffel bag between her suitcase and Skinner's and climbed into the back seat, behind Scully so he can stretch his long legs, does anyone speak.

"I'm coming with you," Skinner tells him, pulling into traffic.

"So I gathered," Mulder says dryly, and sees Skinner glance at him in the rearview mirror.

There's a tense moment of silence, and then Skinner says mildly, "Watch your mouth, Mulder; I'm really not in the mood."

Mulder releases his seatbelt and leans forward, crossing his arms on the seatback behind Scully. "Then why did you come, sir? What are you in the mood for?"

Scully's quick intake of breath confirms what he already knows, that he's gone too far. Skinner carefully pulls over and parks at the side of the road, behind an enormous SUV. He turns in his seat and looks steadily into Mulder's eyes, but says, "Agent Scully, would you excuse us? There's a convenience store across the street. Please buy us some bottled water and breakfast bars." Scully silently obeys, her eyes on Mulder as she quietly shuts the car door.

In the silence of Skinner's requisitioned bureau car, Mulder knows he should start talking: apologizing, explaining, groveling. His mouth is too dry; he swallows convulsively and hopes Scully returns with the water soon. Skinner's face is a little red, his nose pinched, and his breathing labored with the effort to stay in control. Another reaming, Mulder thinks, and gives himself up to it. Just like with my dad, he thinks, and opens his mouth to say, "Well?"

But Skinner is faster. His hand shoots across the back of the car seat and seizes Mulder's shoulder in a fierce grip. Mulder tries to twist away but Skinner's gripped the ball of the shoulder and it hurts to move. "Listen to me, Fox," Skinner whispers, and Mulder freezes at the intensity in his voice.

"Don't," he says softly, and Skinner's expression changes from anger to puzzlement.

"Don't what?"

"Don't hurt me." Mulder cannot believe he just said that; he is ashamed and embarrassed. Skinner releases him instantly, however, and leans back against the door. He is sweating.

"Jesus, Mulder. I don't know what to say to you anymore. I can't -- I don't want . . ." His voice trails off. Skinner looks so unhappy that Mulder begins to apologize again, but Skinner shakes his head sharply.

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have grabbed you. And I should have called you last night, once I'd decided to go with you and Scully. I just --" But once again Skinner cannot voice his thoughts.

Mulder is a little angry and confused by Skinner's behavior. "You're being proprietary," he tells him, and Skinner nods. "I, we're not, we're not a *couple*," he continues, and Skinner nods again, his eyes sliding away from Mulder's.

"Krycek is bad for you," Skinner finally says, and now Mulder is really angry, angry enough to hurt him anyway he can.

"I love him," he says defiantly, and yet again Skinner nods.

"I know," he says softly, and finally looks directly at Mulder. "I know you do, and I'm sorry you do, and I'm sorry I feel this way. I just want you to be careful."

"You just want me," Mulder corrects, and Skinner's blush deepens, but he doesn't contradict the statement. They sit in silence for another minute, then Scully knocks on the hood of the car. Skinner waves at her, then leans across the seat and opens the passenger door. She slides in carrying a paper bag and pulls out a bottle of water for Skinner and an ice cream drumstick for Mulder.

"Let's go," she says, twisting the cap off her own bottle, and Skinner obeys. The trip to Gum Springs is made mostly in silence.

Mulder watches Scully and Ross Washington, deep in conversation at what they've come to call the Bad Coffee Cafe. Skinner sits beside him, too large for the hard wooden chair, a silent and solid presence that offers both comfort and control. Ross is besotted with Scully; his face creases into hopeful smiles as he watches her closely. His eyes shine in his dark face, never leaving hers. He is as shy and awkward as a teenager, clearly afraid yet compelled to go where his heart leads him. Mulder is falling a bit in love with Ross in return; he who loves Scully must be a good man.

Skinner watches Mulder. Mulder feels the weight of his gaze, his concern, his fears. Perhaps his need. Ever since the terrible night of Scully's disappearance, when Skinner had told Mulder he loved him, Mulder has felt a tie between them. A connection that draws Mulder to a kind of sanctuary. A home.

Mulder wonders what these shifting patterns of allegiance, affection, and desire can mean, and where they will take him and his friends. They are in danger, he knows, from many sources. He foresees no happy endings for any of them. Long lives, grandchildren, peaceful deaths are for others, safe in their ignorance, while he waits, exhausted and anxious, for the next evil to overtake and perhaps vanquish those he loves.

For he does love them, Mulder admits to himself. They have entered his heart as silently as a virus and have defeated his immunity to companionship. All those long years of isolation have worn him to this: a man who loves and desires to be loved in return. It is both a failure and a success, to have reached this point in his life. His father dead; his mother estranged; his beloved younger sister vanished into the cosmos. He has battled for decades to protect himself from the ravages of love. And all for naught. He has friends, a substitute sister, and a lover. Somewhere, he has a lover. A small smile curls his lips, and he feels again Skinner's presence. He sips his very bad coffee and ignores him, knowing Skinner knows that he does.

Two people enter the diner, glance around, and start over toward their table. A tall white woman with short ash-blonde hair, in her mid-fifties, dressed in the uniform of a Fed. A shorter Latino with the hawk-nose of the Aztec, his white shirt gleaming against his cafe mocha skin.

Mulder, Skinner, and Washington all rise; Scully remains seated, staring at the newcomers with curiosity. The woman speaks first. "I'm Anita Gammage, from the NTSB, and this is Hal Esperanza, from the FAA. I assume you are with the FBI?"

Skinner introduces everyone while Ross waves over the waitress for more coffee. "It's pretty horrible," he confides in a half-whisper, and Mulder laughs.

"No, it's *really* horrible," he corrects, and Skinner nods, raising an eyebrow.

"All right," Skinner begins, once the waitress has returned to lounge behind the counter; "What have you got for us?"

"We've done a preliminary interview with the crew," Gammage begins, as Esperanza pulls out photocopies and pushes them toward the others, "but we need to follow up on several items. They'll be in DC later this week, and we'd like your assistance." Skinner knows she means that their assistance is required; he doesn't think she likes it at all. "Today and tomorrow, we need to interview individuals in the area who also saw the object, as well as the air traffic controllers who received the report. They're in DC and Richmond."

Skinner nods, and scans the papers Esperanza's given them. Very brief interviews, indeed; he is not impressed with their work thus far. Clearly, the crew is hostile toward the interviewers. Their answers are succinct to the point of obfuscation. Mulder will be of great help with them, he knows.

"I've seen a transcript of the conversation between the pilot and the air traffic controller," Mulder is saying. "It's very brief, just a statement that something bright went quickly past them."

Gammage nods. "Really, I'm not convinced they saw anything. Nothing on radar, no other planes in the area -- a heavily traveled corridor -- saw anything, and some conflict among what the crew saw. It was probably a bird or a weather balloon."

Skinner notices that Esperanza hasn't said a word to them beyond hello. He doesn't watch his partner as she speaks, the way Mulder will watch Scully, nor does he nod in silent agreement. He sits quietly, sipping milky-white coffee, impervious to the discussion around him. Skinner can't resist; he turns his body so he's directly facing Esperanza and asks, "What do you think?"

Esperanza takes another sip of coffee, carefully sets down the mug, and raises his rather sleepy eyes to Skinner's. "I think we don't have enough evidence to come to a conclusion," he replies in lightly accented English: *cone-cluu-see-own*. Skinner likes that, both the accent and the statement. He has politely but firmly separated himself from Gammage's facile interpretation of events. A politician, then. Skinner nods and returns his attention to Gammage. She has blushed very slightly and is studying her appalling coffee. Next to her, Ross Washington looms, a rare frown on his face. Skinner can tell he is holding Scully's hand under the table.

Nodding again, this time to himself, Skinner says, "Let's get started. Who's first to be interviewed?" To his surprise, Ross raises a hand. "You saw it?"

"And Lieutenant Bailey, too." That makes Skinner smile.

"Jesus, I bet he's still swearing about it."

Ross nods his head, a smile returning to him. "Oh, Walt, I'm surprised you couldn't hear in him the Hoover. 'Get that goddam thing outta my skies, Washington!'" Mulder and Scully laugh too, leaving the NTSB rep looking puzzled and slightly annoyed. "He should be here soon." Skinner's looking forward to seeing Bailey again; his outbursts of vexed anger conceal a fierce intelligence that spares no time for foolishness, and what could be more foolish than a series of encounters with UFOs?

And at that thought, Vic Bailey enters the cafe, banging the screen door aside and stalking to their table. "Skinner," he says gruffly but he puts out his hand for a warm shake with Skinner and Mulder, and smiles welcomingly at Scully before turning to glare at the strangers. "Let's get this shit over with," he says, scraping a chair from another table around so he can straddle it.

Gammage and Esperanza each pull notepads from their briefcases while Mulder draws a tiny tape recorder from his breast pocket and flicks it on. "Lieutenant Bailey," Gammage begins, "can you tell us what you saw on the afternoon of September twenty-fourth?"

Aran Islands, Ireland

I don't like this Dun Onaght. It smells of old, old blood. I'm sure people were killed here, in a battle or siege. The land is scraped bare of any trees by the unceasing wind, and I feel pressed up into the sky. Top o' the world, ma. There's a buzz to the air I find unsettling; maybe the ionization is wrong. I've been instructed to wait here until I'm contacted, but no one has said by whom or for what reason.

Since I'm alone, I'll be honest: I'm afraid. This feels like betrayal. The longer I sit here, buffeted by the gusts of sea-smelling wind, the more I'm persuaded that my usefulness has been deemed at an end. I'm being gotten rid of. I feel Vesuvian: ready to explode in anger and fear. This is bullshit.

I grab my backpack and spin, looking for some cover: Nothing. I roll my head back and stare into the eternity of blue overhead: Nothing. Shit. The wind rocks me, and I stagger one step, then turn into it and head west, toward the sea. I don't care anymore; I'm getting out of here. Something is coming, I can feel it; hell, I can taste it, like licking rusty bumpers on a North Dakota morning, and don't ask me how I know what that tastes like. I begin to jog and then run. The ground is smooth; all the stones have been picked up over the millennia to make fences and clochans, so there's nothing to trip over, and I'm able to make good speed. God speed. It's a couple miles to the coast, but adrenaline gives me the stamina I need, and hiking these hills the past few weeks the confidence. I feel better the more distance between me and Dun Onaght.

The sun won't be down for hours; I'm running toward it, almost due west so near the equinox; it hovers in the sky a milky-yellow color and then it all goes dim.

Ah, shit. So much for that fucking needle.

In three separate cars, the investigating party is heading to the next interviewees. Sadly, it's Annie Dyer's family, the young woman who was killed by some extraordinary radiation and whose disappearance and subsequent death brought Mulder and Scully here last time. Skinner drives with Mulder and Bailey; Ross with Scully; Gammage and Esperanza follow in their rented Taurus. Mulder's telling Bailey about a fireball seen over Boise, Idaho, this past June while Bailey rolls his eyes and mentions swamp gas.

Ahead, Washington pulls into a rocky turnoff, slows to a crawl, and then parks. Skinner tucks his car close behind, close enough to see Ross quickly kiss Scully before they climb out of the car. Ahead is a dilapidated two-storey house, badly needing paint, with three women sitting on the slanting front porch. One step is completely missing, another sunk into a vee-shape from years of neglect. The women are caucasian, dressed in ill-fitting clothes, their hair uniformly milk-white, stick-straight, and very thin. Skinner knows their teeth will be bad; he's looking at poverty at a level he rarely sees.

The women remain silent, unmoving, as all the federal and local officials cluster around them. "Ma'am," Ross says politely to the oldest, who probably is in her forties, Skinner thinks, but looks half-again as old, her skin deeply engraved with lines. "I'm sorry to keep bothering you, but these here are the federal agents I told you about. They're hopin' you'll tell 'em about what you saw that night."

Still unmoving, the woman's eyes study Ross, then flick over his shoulder to Scully standing near him. "She yours?" she asks calmly. Ross flushes, his dark skin taking on a deeper, slightly pink hue.

"This is Special Agent Dana Scully," he responds, and then continues to introduce the crowd behind him. Skinner stands back; he believes in letting people do their job, but Gammage pushes forward and kneels beside the woman.

"I'm so sorry about your daughter," she murmurs, surprising Skinner with her gentle tone. "Do you know what happened to her?"

"She's dead," the woman replies. *Daid*.

"Yes, ma'am, I know," Gammage says. "Do you think what you saw recently had anything to do with her death?"

In Skinner's opinion, this is leading a witness, but he remains silent. He realizes now something else is going on here. He looks to Mulder, who is watching the proceedings with the attention of a two-year old waiting for a cookie.

Skinner suddenly feels strongly that he should stop this interview, that something is terribly wrong. The sun seems dimmer to him, yet paradoxically hotter. He begins to sweat heavily in his light summer wool suit. He wonders if that coffee has made him ill. He can hear voices, Gammage's and Mrs. Dyer's he thinks, but cannot make sense of the words. He feels rather than sees the sun wink out and then all is darkness. All is gone. I have been absented from the proceedings, he thinks.

Then the sun returns and he feels strong arms around his waist, and someone is lowering him to the ground. "Walt? Walt?" Mulder's anxious voice calls him, and he can see again, can see Scully leaning over him, her face creased in concern, and he can feel Mulder's lean strength behind him, holding him up while Ross straightens his legs.

"Jesus," he whispers, "What happened?" Scully's cool hand is taking his pulse. Bailey passes an opened water bottle to Mulder, who carefully tilts it to Skinner's mouth. He obediently takes a sip, and then gulps more down, spilling some in his thirst.

When Mulder takes the bottle away, Skinner rolls his head back and rests against Mulder's shoulder and chest. He still feels a bit light-headed, but the ringing in his ears is gone and he can breathe again. When he opens his eyes, Scully is smiling at him.

"I think a bit of heat-stroke," she says, and places the back of her hand against his forward. "You're warm, and your skin is very dry. I want Mulder to take you back to the motel. Take a cool shower, lie down, and force fluids, but no caffeine, okay?" Skinner nods, almost too tired to move his head. He feels Mulder gather him up and tries to help.

"Come on, big guy," Mulder says, and with Ross's help, hoists him to his feet and into the car. "Give me the keys."

"I'll be there in less than an hour, Mulder," he hears Scully say, and then they're driving back the way they came, back to that ratty motel. He's embarrassed, but still too out of it to apologize or explain, just rests his head against the cool leather of the seatback and closes his eyes. He'll have to trust Mulder for a little while longer.

Mulder's concern for Skinner's well-being in itself concerns him -- he doesn't think he should feel this way about his supervisor. A little heat-stroke, Scully said, but it wasn't *that* hot. He turns the air on high and hands Skinner another bottle of water. "Force fluids, she said," he reminds him, and Skinner obediently begins sipping at it.

"I'll be peeing all night," he grumbles between swallows, and Mulder immediately feels better. Grousing is good, he thinks, as he watches Skinner take another sip, then dab some on his forehead.

"What happened back there?"

Skinner sighs, and closes his eyes again. "I don't know. It was when Gammage started questioning that woman. Everything felt wrong to me." He pauses for a moment, opening his eyes to watch the pastureland pass by. "We shouldn't be here, Mulder. I shouldn't have okayed your request. This place is dangerous for us."

Mulder can't believe Skinner said that. He remains silent, thinking about the danger they've known here. Neither man speaks again; Mulder tries to help Skinner out of the car into his motel room, but Skinner brushes him off. He stumbles, however, over the step up to his room, and Mulder again puts his arms around Skinner and braces him while he unlocks the door to his room. "I'm coming in and staying with you until you get out of the shower." Skinner doesn't argue, just grimaces in annoyance.

"Scully will kill me if I don't let you," he finally says, and Mulder gently pushes him forward.

"Get your clothes off."

Skinner, seated on the edge of the drooping double bed, sighs heavily but doesn't argue. When he bends over to untie his shoes, though, he moans softly, and Mulder quickly kneels before him. "I'll do this. Just let me, okay?" Skinner nods, and lies back on the bed. Mulder efficiently begins to strip him, and Skinner bends his arm across his eyes, hiding behind it. Mulder can feel embarrassment seeping off him like sweat, and is petty enough to enjoy the momentary power over him.

"Now your pants," he says, and begins unbuttoning the soft wool trousers.

"Oh, shit," Skinner mumbles from behind his arm, and Mulder sees his groin begin to swell. He smiles to himself and teases Skinner by stroking it lightly. Skinner jerks to one side. "Goddammit, Mulder, this is embarrassing enough; don't make it worse."

"I thought I was making it better," he smirks, and once again slides his hand up Skinner's increasingly firm length. Skinner moans and rolls onto this stomach. Mulder is tempted to slip his fingers into the crevice between Skinner's buttocks, but resists. He's pushed his supervisor far more than he ever intended to; just a little payback for his unannounced presence here in Gum Springs. "I'm sorry, Walt; I'll be good."

"Just let me sleep," he murmurs, but Mulder reminds him that Scully said he should shower. Skinner sighs yet again, pushes himself onto his back and then upright, and begins undressing himself. "You can stay," he tells Mulder, refusing to meet his eyes, "just in case I, I pass out. And to confirm to Scully that I've followed her instructions."

"I'm sorry," Mulder apologizes sincerely. "I, it's. You just pissed me off, and I was getting back at you."

"I know. And I'm sorry about that. I promised you --" but Skinner breaks off suddenly. Mulder knows: Skinner promised never to speak of his feelings for Mulder, and he's trying to keep that promise. Mulder feels ashamed of his behavior. Skinner has kept his part of the bargain, but Mulder let him down. He bites his lower lip, contrite. He turns away when Skinner begins to pull off his trousers and briefs; at least he can give the man some privacy.

"How is he?" Scully asks as she enters the motel room. The shower is running, so Mulder simply gestures toward the bathroom. "No recurrence?"

"He got a little dizzy when he bent over to take off his shoes. Other than that, he's okay." She nods, and sits on the edge of the bed, bending forward to pull off her own shoes. "Ross and Bailey went back to the station; Gammage and Esperanza are checking in."

"What do you think of them?"

She peers up at Mulder through her hair, continuing to rub her feet. "I don't much like her. She's already made up her mind. Don't know about him, though. He knows your work, Mulder. I get a feeling he knows a lot. You should talk to him." Mulder nods. Just then the shower goes off, and they can hear the plastic curtain being pulled back. "Go get some ice and soft drinks, would you, Mulder? I'll wait here for Walt. I want to take his blood pressure." Mulder obediently picks up the ice bucket from the dresser and starts to leave. "Mulder?" He turns back to see Scully looking at him with concern. "Are *you* okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" She frowns at him, and her slight disapproval forces him to be honest. "I'm fine, Scully. I'm a little annoyed that Skinner decided to supervise this field trip; I miss Alex; and I'm, um, concerned to be back in Gum Springs. But I'm okay, really." She nods, and he leaves to get the ice.

"Ow! Oh! Fuck! Oh, Jesus, harder, goddammit, oh, ow, fuck!" Mulder freezes as he enters Skinner's motel room; Scully and Skinner stand near the wall at the head of his bed, staring at each other in horrified silence. "Ah, ow!" bellows the man in the next room, "Fuck!"

As he shuts the door behind him, his partner and supervisor turn and straighten, with identical blushes illuminating their faces.

"Um," Skinner says, but then the wall next to him begins to thump rhythmically, and the unseen man starts shouting his pleasure again.

"Ow! Fuck! Yes, no, wait, angle back and up -- oh! Ow! Fuck, yes! Yes, yes, yesyesyesyeyessssss . . ." and his baritone slides into a low moan just as another, lighter male voice begins shouting, "Now! Now! Now, oh, Jesus the fuck Christ!" and with that, the glorious crescendo is reached, leaving the three eavesdroppers to regroup.

"Um," Skinner says again, after a few breathless moments, even pinker than when Mulder returned with the ice and sweating cans of pop, but the men next door start to laugh and the agents' attention returns to the wall.

"Hey, buddy!" shouts the first voice, banging on the wall between them, "was it good for you, too?"

Scully giggles self-consciously, and then laughs, her face redder than her hair. Skinner sinks to the bed and shakes his head, refusing to meet either Mulder's or Scully's eyes. Mulder remains standing at the door and watches his friends.

Skinner wears a robe tied tightly around his middle; clearly, Scully has harried him into taking a nap. Her doctor's bag is on the table next to the bed, the sphygmomanometer and stethoscope out. Hopeless to take his blood pressure now, Mulder thinks; Skinner looks as though he's run a mile.

Scully shakes her head in some dismay. "Please, sir," she says, obviously returning to an earlier argument. "You need to rest. You lost consciousness," and her voice takes on an irritated tone, "and as a physician, I'm instructing you to lie down."

Skinner looks to Mulder, who holds up his outstretched hands in a don't-look-to-me-for-help gesture, then sighs heavily, and climbs into bed. "I feel as though I were being punished," he grumbles, and Mulder can see it's all Scully can do to keep from straightening the sheet out over him.

"Hypertension is a serious ailment," she lectures him, taking his pulse. "I don't want you to stroke out on us. Not now." He nods, looking as cross as Scully's nephew when he has to compete with Mulder for her attention, and slumps back into the pillows. "I'll be back in an hour to check your blood pressure again. If it isn't down, I'm calling your doctor." Skinner rolls his eyes, but remains silent. Mulder hands him a diet Seven-Up; he already knows caffeine is out of the question. Scully flicks off the light and tugs the curtains more tightly closed, then gestures for Mulder to leave. "Back in an hour," she says again, but Skinner is staring into some middle distance of sulk and embarrassment. Mulder opens the door and gestures to Scully with his head: Out.

Eating stale peanuts and sipping his soft drink, Mulder listens closely to Scully's description of the interrogation of the Dyer family. Nothing he hasn't read or heard a hundred times before. They were preparing dinner when they saw a bright light. The silverware rattled, the dishes rocked, they smelled something like burning electricity. That was it.

Their story parallels both Ross's and Bailey's. The light and vibrations could have a dozen different explanations: sonic boom, hallucination, earthquake. Hell, it could be the rapture. Scully had wanted to take some of the silverware and test it for any magnetic anomalies, but the Dyers were so poor she couldn't bring herself to ask for a sample. Someone would have had to do without a spoon for a while.

She tells Mulder about the collection of salt and pepper shakers arranged in a place of honor on a battered tallboy of splintered white pine. He understands that she finds the collection emblematic of the Dyer's existence: such a useless, worthless gesture, yet it speaks to them of home. He studies her gentle face as she tells her poignant story, slowly trailing off as she realizes how irrelevant it is to their purpose in Gum Springs.

When she's silent for several minutes, Mulder says, "I don't think there's much reason for us to stay in Gum Springs this time. Do you?"

She blushes, but meets his eyes evenly. "I always enjoy spending time with Ross."

"Are you --" but Mulder can't finish the sentence. He has no idea what he was going to ask. Are you seeing him? Are you in love with him? Are you happier with him than with me? All questions are impossible; the answers too important to risk.

"I'm having dinner with him," she finally says. "If you want to come with us, you're welcome."

"No," he says instantly. "I'll have dinner with Walt. I owe him."

She looks sternly at him, but he recognizes the gentle tilt of her mouth to mean she isn't really angry. "Yes, you do, Mulder. Buy him a nice dinner, okay?" He nods. He will; it's a good idea. He's been tiptoeing around Skinner for weeks now and it's time to stop. Skinner has been nothing less than honest with him, and he's been a jerk.

"I will," he promises absently, tossing another fistful of peanuts into his mouth, then brushing the salt off his fingers. "Speaking of Walt, isn't it time to check on him?"

Skinner takes a full minute to answer the door; the bed is rumpled and he has creases on his face. Obviously, he slept. He silently lets them in and obediently sits at the foot of his bed while Scully rolls up the sleeve of his robe and takes his blood pressure. "One thirty over ninety. That's a little high, but not dangerous. I want you to see your doctor when we get back to DC; he might have to titrate your meds."

Skinner nods and pushes his glasses back up his nose. Mulder thinks he looks older and more tired today than he's ever seen him. Something happened out there at the Dyer's, he knows, but he doubts even Skinner knows what it was.

"What's the plan?" Skinner asks, his voice scratchy from sleep.

"I'm buying you dinner," Mulder answers, and smiles his most charming smile, the one that usually gets him a phone number in a matchbook by the end of an evening. Skinner looks evenly at him and nods, then smiles back.

"And you?" he asks, looking up into Scully's face as she listens to his lungs and heart.

"With Ross," she murmurs and shushes him. "Take a deep breath and hold it." Finally, she pulls the stethoscope from her neck. "You're okay," she says, and sounds genuinely glad. "Get dressed and go eat. And whatever you do," she looks at both men, "don't invite that awful Gammage along. She'll just bring up your blood pressure." Neither Skinner nor Mulder has a problem with that instruction. "I'm going to get dressed now. I'll see you guys later."

Guys, Mulder thinks, watching her pack up her bag and leave. She'll be calling us "boys" soon. Be good, boys. He looks speculatively at Skinner. His boss. An enigma to Mulder, but an enigma who cares for him and struggles to do right by him. Someone he wanted to trust; someone who wanted him to love him.

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go for dinner," Mulder finally says. "Not that there's anyplace especially nice here, but definitely not the Frosty Freeze."

"Thank you, Mulder," Skinner tells him, gathering up clean clothes. "As long as they serve wine and meat, I'll be happy. And if you say the words 'cholesterol' or 'blood pressure,' I won't be responsible."

"Not to worry," Mulder says cheerfully. "You haven't heard the cholesterol lectures I've had. You're safe from me." Skinner looks up at him at that, briefly, no expression on his face, but Mulder feels as though he's been seared. Then Skinner says, "Un-huh," and takes his clothes into the bathroom. Mulder smacks his forehead lightly and shakes his head. Fuck.

Aran Islands, Ireland

When I wake, I'm lying at the very edge of the cliff. The wind is so fierce that I'm drenched from the sea spray blown up from the waves crashing so far below. Wet and cold, happy and alive. Of course, I have no idea how long I've been out or, worse, where I've been in the interim. But I'm going to pretend it's been only a few minutes and that I've been right here all along. Even though I know I was over a mile inland when the lights went out.

I have to get out of here. Getting off Inisheer without being noticed isn't easy; it may be impossible, but I have to get out of here. I'm going back to Alexandria, I'm going back to Mulder. I feel almost in despair at the realization of how very far away he is from me: spatially, temporally, emotionally. When I get back, he may very well kill me. I don't think he would; I don't think he could, anymore. But maybe Skinner will be with him, and Skinner would smile and smile as he throttled me. And Scully -- I don't know what Scully would do. Leaving me in Ireland was easy; thousands of miles from her partner, hey -- she was happy to leave me here. But if she knows I'm back, that I'm with him, she wouldn't be nearly as pleased. I respect Scully and would like her respect, but I know I will never have it.

I decide to walk to where the mailboat comes in and catch a ride on a curragh to it. The mailboat can take me to Inishmore where there's an airport at Killeany. Then to Galway, and then to the States. I could be home in two days, if I'm lucky. And I'm often lucky.

Mulder didn't want to take Skinner to the same restaurant that Ross was taking Scully, but he didn't know who else to ask for a recommendation. To his surprise, Ross is cooking himself, so no chance the two couples will meet by accident. Ross sends him to the Washoe House, a former whorehouse long since turned into a respectable bar and restaurant. Not fancy, but the chicken and fish are supposed to be good.

On the drive to Washoe House, Mulder remembers hearing the couple in the room next to Skinner's. They sounded happy, on an endorphin high of sexual pleasure. So far from anything he's experienced in years. He glances at Skinner, who's staring off to the right; how long since he'd shouted out in orgasm? Skinner had been listening avidly, as avidly as Mulder had. How sad that a chance occurrence should play such a large part in his thoughts. Mulder sighs and returns his attention to the case.

"Back to DC tomorrow," he finally says, for lack of any other conversation. Skinner nods, silent. "I'm anxious to hear what the flight crew has to say."

Skinner takes a deep breath. "Yeah. I'll try to keep Gammage quiet so you can do the questioning; you'll get more out of them." Mulder is immensely flattered by this comment, but doesn't know how to respond. He nods, and bites his lower lip. Skinner takes another deep breath, then says, "Mulder. I don't know what happened to me this afternoon. I don't have a lot of faith in premonitions or psychic phenomena. In spite of everything I've seen and everything you've told me about." Mulder can hear a slight smile in Skinner's voice as he says this. "But I believe that something is happening. Something terrible. I believe we need to get out of here.

"Would you mind if we went back to DC tonight? I could call Scully and arrange to pick her up. Not spend the night, the way we'd planned."

Skinner's never taken his eyes off the view during this remarkable request. Mulder keeps shooting quick glances at him, but Skinner refuses to meet his eyes. The Washoe House is just ahead; he slows the car and turns into its parking lot, choosing a spot near the front windows. After he's turned off the engine and pocketed the keys, he looks again at Skinner, still staring out the passenger window, apparently fascinated by the other cars in the lot.

"Sir. Walt." Mulder waits, and after a few heartbeats, Skinner finally turns to him. His eyes are shaded with pain and circled with exhaustion. "We can go right now if you want. Just drive back to the motel, pack, get Scully, and leave. It's your call. I trust you."

Wow, Mulder thinks, slightly dizzy with surprise; where did that come from? But he's relieved he made the gesture; the tension slides from Skinner's face and his mouth curves in a very slight smile. He nods. "After dinner. That's soon enough. Let's call Scully and give her some time to get ready."

"Maybe we should ask Ross to come with us?" Skinner raises his eyebrows, but nods at Mulder's suggestion.

Ross won't come. Scully is quietly, professionally furious with him. He stands just outside her motel room, watching her every move as she packs, his face reflecting his fears and disappointment and, yes, Mulder thinks, his love. But he won't leave. "I work here," was his soft response to Mulder's question; "it's my home." Mulder respects and likes Ross, but he thinks he's a fool to let Scully go. Mulder's done it so often himself that he can recognize it in others.

Skinner is still a little lethargic, but has finally finished packing. The three FBI agents have left messages for the NTSB and FAA agents, to meet at the hotel in DC where the Swissair crew will be tomorrow afternoon. Gammage was out; Esperanza simply nodded when Mulder'd told him they were leaving now.

At last, Scully zips closed her bag and tugs it out the door toward the bureau car Skinner had requisitioned. Ross quietly picks the bag up and fits it into the trunk. When he closes it, Scully is half-way into the front seat, but he puts one large hand on her upper arm. She immediately stops moving and looks up at him, then climbs back out and walks a few paces away.

Mulder turns his head to look at Skinner, who is watching over his shoulder. Skinner gently touches Mulder's arm, and the two men walk away from the car, toward the road, giving Ross and Scully some time and privacy. They stand, side by side, staring across the narrow pot-holed road. Mulder feels a powerful affection for Skinner at that moment, for his sensitivity and kindness, his willingness to forgive Mulder's many faults, and his ability to assist them in spite of formidable enemies. Mulder deeply wishes he could repay Skinner in some way, but knows of only one: to love him in return. And Mulder cannot do that.

Or can he? Feeling the heat from Skinner's body radiating from beneath the dark suit, knowing that his presence arouses Skinner -- this knowledge excites Mulder. And Skinner would never hurt Mulder, unlike Krycek. Mulder doesn't really know what he wants from a lover at this point: Krycek's implacable urgency or Skinner's gentle constancy. And Krycek is gone. Not a word in months. Mulder's been celibate and he's sick of it.

Impulsively, he leans against Skinner and is delighted by the sharp intake of breath that results. Then Skinner tentatively drapes an arm across his shoulders, and Mulder turns into the embrace with pleasure. Jesus. It feels so good to be touched. He remembers teasing Skinner this afternoon, stroking his penis, and Mulder looks into Skinner's face. Maybe this is right, after all. Krycek is a dream, but Skinner is standing right here, wanting him.

County Galway, Ireland

Oh, Mulder. Jesus. I saw a Bounty Hunter at Galway Airport. I don't think I should try that route. Shit. Now I know why they sent me to Ireland; there are so few exits. Dublin will be better; it's a much larger airport. Or maybe I should take the day ferry to Armadale on Skye, then fly out of Inverness. That might be best. They'll expect me at Dublin, and they'll consider Heathrow, but Scotland, now.

What are the odds? I can only guess. But the longer, more roundabout way seems less likely to lead me back to them.

I'm tired of being on the run. I'm tired of looking over my shoulder, or up in sky, expecting at any moment for it all to end. What's worth it? The little bit of power I might have had? Shit.

It's all shit, I realize, standing in a hard rain at the bus stop, waiting for a bus that'll take me north to Derry. I have a battered backpack, an even more battered leather jacket with a silver needle slid under the collar, and one prosthetic arm to my name. I've influenced no one, except for brief periods, and injured many. The wind is icy, coming straight from the sea, and I'm standing in a puddle of muddy water. The reflections of cars' headlights shimmer in the wet road, a mirage of the lights of a home.

Maybe I should just keep going. North into the night, forever and ever, into the white Arctic night. Did the Inuit really set their old and useless folks out on an ice flow?

Ah, Mulder.

After some discussion, Mulder's driving, with Skinner stretched out in the back seat. Scully's worried about him, Mulder can tell; she keeps twisting back to look at him in the early evening light.

Mulder feels -- pressure. As though he were deep underwater. A straining in his ears, a weight against his skin. He has to remind himself to breathe deeply and not to gasp for air. He feels slightly feverish, and sees that Scully is flushed, too. At her next glance back at Skinner, he, too, turns; Skinner is lying on his side, legs bent at the knee, far too long for the car seat. His eyes are open but unseeing, the muscles of his face tight. Mulder looks at Scully and discovers she is watching him. He makes an interrogative face, but she just shrugs.

Twenty years ago, while Mulder had been a student at Oxford, he'd gone to Paris for a holiday. His mother had given him some money, and he'd saved as much as he could from his allowance, and then his father's sister sent him a check for doing so well in school. He'd taken the ferry over, all by himself, excited beyond reason at yet another escape.

Once in Paris, he'd checked into an extremely ratty youth hostel, as much as one checks into such things, and, keeping his backpack with him, had gone out to explore. In solitary delight, he'd walked the narrow streets and broad avenues, and listened to the most beautiful language he'd ever heard (he hadn't yet been to Italy). It had been a cold day in early spring; there was ice still gleaming in thin sheets in the steep gutters and tiny glowing buds on the lindens.

He'd gone, of course, to the Louvre; this was long before the glass pyramid had been conceived of. The guards admitted to no English, but his desires were obvious enough and his reading French more than adequate for his purposes. Out of the gelid air into the sultry humidity of the crowded museum, stunned at its size and the alcoves crammed with paintings he'd studied in school and in books on long afternoons in his childhood bedroom, he wandered, lost in charmed pleasure and a dazed sense of unreality that he, Fox Mulder, was actually there.

Finally, he came across Nike, Winged Victory. The only information he could find about it was printed on a large card in French, and he read it practically cross-eyed with anticipation; where could such beauty have come from? But the answer was not forthcoming; no one really knew. From the past, from the future, from Mars; did it matter? He finally tucked the plastic-coated guide back into its slot and turned to study Nike herself.

His sense of unreality, of disconnection with everything that made him who he was -- who he *had* been, he had corrected himself sternly -- swelled. Dizzy with delight, he leaned across the balustrade and studied the marble, cold to the hand, he imagined, but warm with an inner life of its own.

That alien being, set down so lightly in the packed stairwell, studied by so many eyes, swimming in so many languages, remained calm and aloof. He longed to climb up and stroke the wings, to wrap his arms around the gracefully falling marble robes. To immerse himself in its alienage, its otherness. It spoke to him, he felt, in the youthful arrogance of sensitive intelligence; out of the myriad visitors, it spoke to him.

That sense of being selected, of being identified, presses down on Mulder as he drives back to DC. He feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he shivers slightly, as if someone has walked across his grave. He hears Skinner moan softly behind him, and Scully's sharp intake of breath. Then he sees the light, no, lights; no, he isn't sure, and he slams on the brakes and twists the car off the road, they're almost flying into the stubbly field and he stands up on the brakes feeling the seatbelt press into his chest and sees Scully brace her hands against the dashboard and hears an enormous *thump* and simultaneously feels an impact into the back of his seat that he knows is Skinner flying off the back seat and into the front seats and then the light is all around them and he starts to cry because nothing works nothing helps nothing there's nothing he can do, as always he's helpless and useless and his father was right it should have been him, always him, always him.

Skinner doesn't feel well. He's never fully recovered from the incident at the Dyers' home earlier today, although he attempted to hide that from both Mulder and Scully. Now, after his dinner, he's too tired to pretend anymore, and obediently folds himself into the back seat, head on his wadded up suitcoat, uncaring, heedless of how his behavior appears to his subordinates. He just wants to go home. More specifically, he wants out of Gum Springs. Closing his eyes, he vows never to return. Freeh himself can order him to go, it won't matter; he'll never return to Gum Springs.

He opens his eyes and stares tiredly at the crinkled plastic back of Scully's seat. She's considerately moved it as far forward as she can, and under it he can see the detritus of past occupants: wadded kleenex, the silver of a gum wrapper, a few coins. Unwanted, unused.

Everything he sees seems to bear an enormous freight of melancholy. Melancholy: from the Sanskrit, meaning *dirty*. He feels as dark and dirty as an inmate of Bedlam. His head aches, his eyes smart, the back of his throat tastes like scorched metal, and he longs passionately for his broad empty bed, its sheets gleaming in the night, cool against his fevered skin.

Suddenly he's jerked forward, then back, and then forward again, right off the seat and into the space below. His head smashes into the springs in Scully's seatback, then back into the seat he'd just been lying on. The car seems to be bouncing, and the light seeps into his tightly-shut eyes; he can feel the weight of the light as if each photon carried a substantial mass, pressing him down into the dirty carpet, his nose in the sandy coiled wool, his arms crossed over the back of his head. He can hear Mulder sobbing and little gasps from Scully, and he turns to a familiar prayer from his childhood: How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord?

And he knows he is forgotten.

Inverness International Airport, Inverness, Scotland

Ah, Christ, it's him, or one of them, I've never known how many there were of them, oh, please dear God, forgive me, help me, don't let me die like this alone so far from Mulder, my love. Oh *fuck* me.

The men's can is not the best hiding place, I know, but it'll do for a minute, while I catch my breath. Fuck. I can't believe they're at Inverness. What the fuck can I do now? If they're way up here, then they're everywhere. There really is no exit. Thank you Sartre; why the fuck did I read you anyway.

All right. I'll keep going north. Like Frankenstein and his monster, I'll keep on north. The Singing Sands -- I remember a novel by that name; up in the Orkneys, I think they are. Good lobsters up there, I've heard. I'll think of a big lobster dinner, lots of butter, and some of the Orkney cheese, soft and fatty, for dessert, yeah, and north of the Orkneys are the Shetlands, and then Faeroe Island, I think it belongs to Denmark, but then there's Iceland, oh god, how I long to see Iceland in autumn.

I have to get out there, get out of here. Without looking around, I calmly walk toward the exit, backpack slung carelessly over my shoulder, right out of the Inverness airport. It's raining lightly. I wave cheerfully to a pretty girl waiting at a bus stop out of the drizzle, and trot towards her, as if she were expecting me; she looks a bit alarmed but mostly pleased. "How are you this evening?" I ask her, giving her my best smile, and she blushes charmingly. I use the moment to glance around; no one. No one that I can see. "You're a lovely girl," I tell her warmly, and step away from her, into the shadows of the parking garage.

I begin to run toward an exit, then stop behind a pillar, trying to breathe quietly despite the enormous pressure in my lungs. My heart feels as though it's decided to beat outside my chest. An older couple walks by; I stare at them closely, but they seem harmless. Of course, I'm hiding from shape-shifters; how the fuck would I recognize who's harmless.

Once they're safely ensconced in their elderly Volvo and on their way, I look around for something to steal. Something incredibly mundane, a car no one notices. I'll drive the fuck to Orkney. Hey, I'll drive to Iceland! Several rows over, I find the car of my dreams: a Toyota Camry, pale blue -- the color serial murderers prefer, I remember idly from my days at Quantico -- and best of all, it's unlocked. Glancing around again and finding no one very near, I sling my backpack into the passenger seat and climb in, pushing the seat back so it'll fit my long legs. Hot wiring I can do, although it isn't really *wiring* per se, anymore. Nonetheless, my backpack carries more than granola bars, and within two minutes, I'm heading out of the garage, trying to remember to drive on the left.

Well. On the road again. No one races after me, waving his arms in frustration, no one even looks at me as I pay the parking toll; the old guy is reading the sporting green and barely glances my way. With a sense of fulfillment, of freedom, of hardship overcome, I head out. Going inland a bit, toward Beauly, then north again, toward Ardgay. I'll ditch the car in Wick, then take a bus to the port Scrabster in Thurso, and from there the P&amp;O ferry to St. Margaret's Hope.

I love the names of these towns. Maybe St. Margaret's Hope will bring me luck. She was supposed to have made Scotland a more virtuous place, promoting piety, care for the sick, and homes for the poor. Maybe I should pray to St. Margaret.

Shit! Shit, now *this* I can't believe. I overcome obstacles like fucking Hercules but get stuck in the stables with this news. Jesus the fuck Christ.

Mulder, my Mulder, is missing. Has been for almost two weeks. Twelve days, to be precise. He, Scully, Skinner, and the bucar they were driving. Just fucking disappeared off the face of the earth. Scully's beau kissed her good bye, stood mournfully watching her drive off with the boys, and never heard from her again. He's been interviewed on the news a couple times; once just in passing, a just a brief clip from the local news shown on a DC station, and once in greater depth, along with his boss. UFOs, he said earnestly, while his boss rolled his eyes in disgust and the interviewer tried not to smile.

Well, he's probably right, is all.

Apparently, they were returning to DC to interview some flyjockeys who'd had the misfortune to see and the idiocy to report seeing a UFO. The NTSB agent looked to be a real bitch; she was pissed that they'd disappeared. She isn't the only one.

And I am utterly alone. As alone as I was on Inisheer. I should've fucking let them take me, ah, Christ, I might be with Mulder right now, if only I'd stayed and let them take me. That was the day they went missing, the day I fled Dun Onaght, fled the lights in the sky, slipped loose the leash of my masters and ran home to Mulder.

I am *such* an asshole.

I am also horny as hell, which is why I'm fucking this very nice boy I met on the corner. He has longish floppy brown hair and puppy-dog eyes and a sulky mouth I've kissed till it's swollen and red; now he's bent over the dresser, tight ass pink from my slaps, grunting as I thrust in and out of him. His eyes are closed, but I'm watching his face in the mirror; a tiny frown creases a vertical line between his eyebrows each time I shove deep into him. He really doesn't look that much like Mulder, his body is too slight, and he smells off, so I close my eyes and picture fucking Mulder.

I'd slapped him then, too; first across the face to make my point, and then across his ass as he acquiesced. I'd been angry, not at him, but he was there, something to strike, to seize, to bite, to shake in my frustration. Besides, I think Mulder likes those slaps, craves them even; his pissy old father looked like someone who'd get off striking women and children. I think all those years trained Mulder into believing he deserved the slaps. I never asked him. It's not the sort of thing one could ask, really.

I remember sliding into Mulder's rectum, watching myself disappear into him, really paying attention to the sight of flesh merging with flesh. I'd touched his asshole when I was mostly in, pressing my thumb against and then inside; it was swollen and red like this kid's mouth. It amazes me that humans can crawl inside each other; what a brilliant puzzle we are, to be put together again and again, creating some larger image with greater meaning than the individual pieces. I love it, and I love how I fit into Mulder, so neatly and firmly. I remember rocking in and out of him, staring at my penis as it slipped in then back, in then back.

Thinking about that, imagining it, I feel the pressure in my balls and some power runs up my spine, the kundalini of sex roaring through me, and it feels like the little death we all desire will finally kill me, right here in this tawdry motel room, leaning over this boy I just bought, staring into the smudged mirror at my thin white face.

I give the boy his money, and then another twenty because he resembles Mulder. His eyes light up and I realize my generosity was a mistake; he'll be back, maybe with friends, to lighten my load. Fuck

I lean against the door after I lock it, and wonder what to do now. Fucking hasn't helped, not that I thought it would, though I'd hoped.

Skinner, Scully, and Mulder are gone. That fact remains.

On impulse, I grab my stuff and head out. I'm going to Mulder's apartment. Feed the fish, if nothing else. Prove to myself he's not really there. Read his mail, listen to his voicemail, sleep on his semen-laden couch.

Scully's mother is here when I arrive. I've passed myself off as a friend of Mulder's, which has some basis in fact, and am drinking a well-made cup of coffee in Mulder's kitchen. Mrs. Scully has been feeding the fishes. She likes Mulder, she's quite open about her liking of him. His own mother remains in New England. I don't think she likes her son as much as Mrs. Scully does. No wonder Scully's the person she is.

"Have you known Fox long?"

"Six years now."

She nods and takes another sip of coffee. "How did you meet?" Fishing, but nicely.

"Through my work. I, um, am into computers."

She smiles slightly. "I think I've heard of you. Do you publish a newsletter? You must know Dana then, as well."

Oh my god, she thinks I'm one of the three stooges Mulder hangs with. Well, that's a good cover. "Yes, ma'am. She's a nice person. She takes good care of Mulder." Her smile grows; typical mom, so proud of her doctor daughter. She glances at her watch.

"I should be going soon; I have an appointment with --" she stops abruptly. Doesn't want me to know where she's going.

I stand. "Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Scully. I'm glad to have met you. I know things will be all right."

Her smile abruptly leaves her face. "Oh, Mr. Steel, I hope so. I think so." But she doesn't. I leave and wait around the corner, then let myself back into Mulder's apartment, while she's off on her mysterious errand.

I listen to Mulder's voicemail. The Gunmen, several times. A breathy-voiced woman, asking him to call. AT&amp;T wanting him to switch back. And three hang-ups.

A quick look through his fridge decides me; I need groceries. I'll stay here for a while longer, until I can think what to do. Surely nobody will think to look for me here. To the neighbors and Mrs. Scully, I can be Fox's cousin or best friend from college, just waiting for him to come home.

Whatever's happening better happen soon. Because I don't have a plan beyond buying potatoes, onions, and sweet butter.

"Mr. Steel?"

"Hi, Mrs. Scully. Please, call me Ben."

"You're still there?"

"Yes, well, Fox gave me a key some time ago. I want to wait for him. No place else to go."

"I see."

Long pause. I shift the phone to my other ear and stir the soup I'm making. Homemade chicken broth filled with carefully diced vegetables and gnocchi. Freshly-grated Parmesan waiting to be sprinkled on top. "Can I help you, Mrs. Scully?"

"No, no, dear. I just was hoping he'd be back."

Yeah, well, you and me both. It's been three weeks now, to the day. I haven't made any inquiries beyond following the small clips on the news and in the paper; I don't want anyone to know there's someone interested in these missing federal agents.

She sighs heavily; I hear the grief for her lost daughter in that sigh. I feel -- guilty. Although I'm not this time. Not really. Not much.

"I talked to the FBI," she finally says. I stop stirring and turn off the burner.

"Yes, ma'am? Did they have any news?"

"No." Her voice is sharp, almost contemptuous. "I don't think -- I don't know how badly they want them back."

Very carefully, "What do you mean, Mrs. Scully?"

After a pause, she says, "I spoke with Assistant Director Skinner's supervisor, the Deputy Directory. The Director is out of the country." This last said with some venom. "The Deputy Director just tried to put me off. He didn't say it outright, but I got the feeling he thinks maybe they, maybe they ran off together."

The FBI is getting ready to disown them. I should have guessed. "Jesus."

"Exactly." Her voice is dryly humorous now. "Dana wouldn't leave Ross like that, Ben. She certainly wouldn't leave me like that. And I don't think that Fox would have left me, either."

"No, ma'am, I don't think they would've. Can I ask what else the Deputy Director told you?"

"Well, he didn't *tell* me anything. He made several suggestions. That their work had been deteriorating, that they'd been feeling the pressure of always being wrong, that stress does funny things to people, that perhaps there was something between them."

I feel my eyebrows climb. "He was suggesting something, ah, *sexual*?"

She laughs, very shortly. Doesn't bother to reply.

"Jesus," I say again.

"Ben," she says quite firmly now, obviously changing the topic. "I'm going to mass this afternoon, to pray for Dana and Fox and that Mr. Skinner. Do you want to come?"

Do I want to be seen in public with Dana Scully's mother? I don't think so.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Scully. But I will pray for them. I *do* pray for them." And I do, in my own way.

"Thank you. I'll call you if I hear anything more."

So. The weasels at the Bureau are going to let this go. No full-scale manhunt, no interagency collaboration, no drawing the forces together to search, nothing. Does no one over there really care? Probably a few co-workers, especially Scully's; maybe another AD or two; certainly Skinner's administrative assistant. And that would be it. They were trouble; they were hard to handle; they were politically incorrect; they were going to blow the roof off. And now they're gone.

Much better for everyone this way.

Ever since Mrs. Scully mistook me for one of the computer geeks that Mulder relies on, I've been thinking about contacting them. Mulder was stupid enough to leave their email addy on his computer; I could contact them using his account and set up a meeting. They'd be curious enough to come, I think, in spite of their well-known and well-justified paranoia. Make it someplace public, so they'd feel safer.

I boot up his computer and wait for the systems check to complete.

I actually like Starbucks. I know it's not fashionable, but the coffee is pretty good, the service excellent, they're all clean and well-lighted, and they are so *safe*. So comfortable. So completely unremarkable. I fit in, at Starbucks.

I get there early and order a tall single latte with an anisette biscotti, take them to a window seat, and wait. I'm not sure who will show up, one or all of them, or how they'll manage the meet, but I have time. It's a sunny day, temperature in the sixties, leaves of the trees turning brilliant golds and reds. I enjoy the parade of conspicuous consumption outside the window, and rest in the patch of sunlight and peace granted me for a few minutes.

Oh ho, it's John Byers they've sent. I recognize him from surveillance photos that disgusting cancerous former boss of mine had taken. Tall, slim, a good-looking man. He shyly peers around the cafe and I raise a finger to catch his attention. His brown eyes widen, crinkling his forehead endearingly, and he nods. Gets his own coffee -- house blend, no cream or sugar -- and hesitantly sits down across from me.

Feeling like an old American Express commercial, I ask, "Do you know who I am?"

His eyes flicker to my prosthetic and back. He swallows and whispers, "I think so."

I nod. "I'm sure you think correctly. Do you know where Mulder is?"

His eyes widen again. He really is very attractive. I feel a slight stirring in me, something I haven't felt for a while. His air of innocence is almost Mulderesque. More intense, though. Here is a man who's remained in the back room all his adult life, whereas Mulder has forced himself out into the light.

Still whispering, he answers simply enough. "No." I nod, and we sip our coffee companionably. I decide to play what few cards I have.

"I've heard the FBI is jettisoning them."

He nods, a slight downturn to his handsome lips indicating annoyance or dislike. "Yes. We heard that, too. We've heard," and he actually lowers his head and looks around. Couldn't look anymore suspicious. "We heard they're going to blame them for something, give them a reason to have disappeared like that. They'll be wanted, under suspicion."

I resist the urge to throw my coffee on the floor and run out of there. I'm not surprised, well, yes, actually, I am surprised. If it had just been Mulder, but this was Scully and Skinner. Who would believe it? I ask Byers that question.

Now he looks cynical, and very sad. "People like to believe bad things about others," he says simply, and of course I know he's right. "They'll see something suspicious in Mulder's and Skinner's relationship -- I've already read emails suggesting Skinner was protecting the X-Files because he and Mulder were lovers."

"And Scully?"

He shrugs. "She's a woman. It'll be even easier to come up with ways to discredit her. She's infertile, you know." I raise my shoulders interrogatively. "Her desire for children led her to risky behavior. Who knows. The suggestions are flying, though."

"You read the Bureau's email?" He blushes, and sips more coffee, not answering. I already know the answer. Jesus. Really, nothing on-line is safe; I don't know why I'm so shocked. "Who's behind this?"

He shakes his head. "We don't know. Freeh is out of the country," yeah, and that's starting to sound awfully suspicious to me, "and his Deputy Director is pretty quiet. It's mostly at the assistant director and the deputy assistant director levels that this is being discussed. But we think maybe the CIA is behind it, ultimately. Or the NSA. Their email is a lot harder to crack, though."

"You're suggesting that agencies other than the FBI are behind the effort to discredit Mulder, Scully, and Skinner."

Byers looks steadily at me. He doesn't deign to answer, nor should he. I worked for some of those very agencies, the blackest of the black ops, the most covert organizations in the world. He would be a fool to risk admitting he even suspects their existence, and I don't think this man is a fool.

Abruptly, he sets down his cup. "Gotta go," he murmurs.

"Wait." I take his wrist, narrow and rather bony, the skin warm and dry against my hand. "Contact me if you hear anything. Please." He stares down at me, almost in disbelief, then drops his eyes and pulls away. I think he agreed. I think.

Seeing Byers has woken something in me. If Mulder were here, I'd fuck him raw. I stare out his window, the tacky remnants of a taped X still collecting dust, and slowly, firmly stroke myself. I have never been so fixated on one person before. I ponder the wisdom of masturbating before an uncurtained window in the middle of the day while teasing myself, shifting in my jeans. Mulder's actually, so they're a little tight, the seam digging into my ass provocatively. Oh god.

I pull my hand away. Later. Right now I'm going to break into Skinner's place, see if I can find anything helpful there. As I turn, I catch sight of my reflection in the framed poster on the wall. I look pale, ghostly. Haunted. Sexy. Alone.

The car finally lands with a bone-jarring thump and Skinner's poor head once again bashes into the floor. Mulder is still weeping, sobbing heart-brokenly, like a child, and as the engine chokes to death, Skinner opens his eyes to see Scully's limp left hand gracefully fall from the console between her and Mulder to dangle in front of Skinner's face. The car settles into the ground, its engine pinging as the metal cools, and there's a smell of scorched rubber and burnt earth. Groaning, Skinner gingerly shifts himself upright but, dizzy, he remains on the floorboards. Getting out of the car, or even onto the back seat again, seems impossibly difficult.

Mulder's crying has slowed and he's sniffing. "Mulder?" Skinner tries to say, but his voice is weak and his throat feels tight with dust. He swallows and tries again. This time Mulder hears him; he twists in his seat while releasing his seatbelt, then leaning back and around.

"Walt?" Mulder's face is red and shiny; he's been crying for a long time, Skinner can tell. "Are you all right? Oh, Jesus, *Scully*," and he looks at his unconscious partner. "Dana?" he whispers cautiously.

Skinner levers his ass onto the back seat, awkward in the cramped quarters. He wipes his face and takes a deep breath. "Mulder," he tries yet again, this time in a stronger voice. Years of hearing that particular tone seem to have an effect; Mulder sits up straighter and looks him in the eye. Skinner pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabs at Mulder, who obediently takes it and swipes vigorously at his eyes and nose.

Skinner forces his aching body to move, to climb out of the car and stretch, then to open Mulder's door and help him out. The two men stand in the cold sunlight staring at each other. Scully makes a soft noise and they hurry to her side. The passenger door has been dented and they have to force it to open; it screeches painfully as they use their joint strength to pull it back. When they release it, it angles down. It'll need substantial bodywork before that door will close.

But the noise has released Scully from whatever sleep or unconsciousness or fugue she was in; she sits blinking in the bright sunshine, holding her right hand to shade her eyes. They help her out and she leans heavily against Mulder, embracing him, and Skinner refuses to stop himself from putting his arms around them both. However illicit the gesture may be, it simply offers too much comfort for him to deny himself.

"The sun," Scully finally mumbles, and coughs dryly. "How long did we sit here?"

"We didn't," Skinner answers firmly. "The car was still moving when I woke up." No one says anything at this. What is there to say? It was night, now it's day; the car couldn't have been careening out of control all that time. But all three agents know how unreliable time is. No invariable constant, it fluctuates at the will of others more powerful than humans.

They start the hike back to the main road, helping Scully over the sandy hillocks the car's tires have dug. It seems natural and appropriate to hold hands under the circumstances. It seems necessary to cling to each other as they await to learn what has befallen them this time.

"Allen Hynek has a theory of collective amnesia," Mulder says idly later that day as they sit in the waiting room of the Deputy Director. "He postulates that when something happens too far out of the range of what is considered normal or possible, the human mind refuses to acknowledge it. He compares it to blowing a fuse or a form of shell-shock. He says government officials are especially susceptible to it."

Ross is waiting with them, his arms around Scully. He hasn't let her go since he picked them up at the side of the road between Gum Springs and DC; Mulder thinks it's unlikely he ever will. He himself sits inappropriately near his supervisor; their thighs are touching beneath their filthy dress trousers, Skinner's arm presses against his shoulders as he stretches it across the back of the couch they share.

Kim had been wildly pleased to see the return of her boss; she'd kissed him soundly, then blushed and shook his hand. As they'd been escorted through the hallways and up the elevator, heads popped up from cubicles and out of private offices. Some smiles, many stares of astonishment, a few of disappointment and even hostility. Two Marines ahead of them, two behind; Skinner felt in a parade, but their escorts were kindly and had smiled at Kim's exuberance. "I have so much to tell you," she'd whispered, just loud enough for Mulder to overhear. Skinner had hugged her and smiled back, then sent her back to his suite.

Now they sit, still dirty and covered in the dust from their accident. The car had been impounded; local police and federal agents were fighting over jurisdiction. Mulder hopes Lieutenant Bailey will win; he prefers to learn the results of Bailey's investigation rather than any federal one.

Three weeks they'd been gone. Three weeks, but they'd experienced approximately thirty seconds. Some air time, yeah, Mulder had felt the car leave the ground, but nothing to suggest it had been levitated into -- whatever. He refuses to speculate. Not here. Here he'll tell the literal truth and let others come to whatever conclusions they wish.

He had managed to learn that Gammage had had her way and the Swissair flight crew had been discredited. Officially, they'd seen a weather balloon and mistook it for something else. He was too tired to care very much; that sort of thing happened all the time. But he was sorry he wouldn't get to interview the witnesses.

The Deputy Director himself appears in the doorway, silently inviting them in. Ross comes, too; Mulder speculates that his size and color protect him in the white middle-class bastion of the upper levels of the Bureau. Scully, however, steps away from him, shaking herself into a semblance of her professional persona. Her pride, Mulder knows, and her hard to work get here won't permit her to lean on anyone, even under these circumstances.

They sit around a large polished conference table. Only the Deputy Director is present. He offers them neither coffee nor water. His face is flinty with dislike, of them or of their circumstances, Mulder can't guess. He glances at Skinner who, despite his smudged clothing, looks authoritative, radiating an angry confidence that Mulder finds comforting. When they sit, Skinner drags his chair a few inches closer to Mulder's, close enough that Mulder can smell his supervisor, who needs a shower as much as Mulder does. But his earthy scent is better than the miasma of secrets and power seeping from the walls and carpeting.

The Deputy Director does all the talking. They are not interrogated. This is not an interview. This is a pronouncement, a judgment. A sentence.

After the most insincere welcome Mulder's ever heard, he announces that the X-Files are to be closed. The three of them are suspect; there may have been leaks of sensitive material to inappropriate sources. What little evidence there is indicates that they may be responsible. Their disappearance has been a little too high profile; people are asking where they went, what they did. It's all very suspicious. Of course, the Deputy Director assures them, he has no doubts about them, about their loyalties. But Bureau personnel must be like Caesar's wife: above suspicion.

Rather than cause any potential scandal, therefore, the Bureau has decided to reassign them. Mulder will return to Quantico as an instructor in case management. Scully will work as a forensic pathologist. Skinner is urged to take an early retirement. They will be amply compensated for moving. There will be small promotions for both Mulder and Scully. The President has just signed a bill that would permit retiring management to add five years service credit to their retirement benefits, so Skinner in effect has a small promotion as well.

They are forbidden to speak to any press. They may, in a few years, write about their experiences, but any such writings would have to be approved by the FBI. Their offices would be cleaned out for them. They should go home and stay home. Skinner's retirement is effective immediately. Mulder and Scully will start their new jobs in two weeks.

Skinner rises suddenly. The Deputy Director looks at him mildly and says, "This is not a discussion, Walt."

"Don't fucking 'Walt' me, you asshole." Mulder couldn't have been more surprised if a Grey had materialized before them. "I won't retire; you'll have to fire me. I will go to the press if and when I want, and I'm startin' ta want ta." Mulder hears a bit of Texas enter Skinner's voice in his anger; he smiles to himself. "These are my people, to move or not as I wish. Until you can my ass, *I'll* tell them what to do."

The Deputy Director appears unmoved by this, although Scully's eyes widen and Ross smiles openly. "Very well, Walt. If you wish. But you will destroy Agent Mulder."

Everyone stares at Mulder; Mulder stares back. Skinner asks softly, "How?"

"Did you knew he's sexually involved with a felon? With a *male* felon? Did you know he's been under surveillance for years? Did you know --"

"Shut up!" Skinner roars, startling Mulder out of his daze. For a moment there is silence, and then more quietly, Skinner says, "I suppose you have pictures." The Deputy Director smiles, a little moue of distaste. "Fuck."

Mulder looks up at Skinner. He feels numb, with fatigue, with shock, and with embarrassment. His mind slows; he can hear the handsome wood and glass wall clock ticking slowly behind him, hear the slide of Scully's cream silk blouse as she shifts in her seat, hear Skinner sigh deeply.

Finally, he too rises, shaking out his dusty creased trousers. "Why are you doing this?"

The Deputy Director looks at him for a long moment, then drops his eyes. Other forces are at work, Mulder realizes. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get me. Being abducted and returned -- no one knows what we saw, what we know; we're *dangerous*.

"I'll go," he offers the Deputy Director. "Let Skinner and Scully stay. I'll go. I won't go to the press, I won't write my memoirs, I won't continue any investigation privately, I won't do anything, but let them stay."

From the look on the Deputy Director's face, Mulder knows that that is what the DD wants. That he is simply following a script written by someone else. He feels Skinner's hand on his back, another on his arm, and he turns to face him, remembering their embrace outside Scully's room in Gum Springs. "Let me do this, Walt," he whispers to the pained man before him. "I can do this. I want to. It's time."

He feels Scully rise and come to him, her hands on his shoulders, and he turns to smile down into her beloved face. "Please, Scully."

For minutes more they stand silently. Tired, dirty, defeated. Mulder finally looks back at the Deputy Director; his face is blank now, hiding whatever he might be feeling. Is he moved by Mulder's gesture? Envious of his friends? He simply nods. "I'll have the paperwork to you in a few minutes. You'll be taken care of for the next month, to give you time to decide what to do next. I suggest you leave Washington." With that, he stands gracefully, nods to Ross, and leaves by a different door.

Idly, Mulder wonders who'd been observing this charade, probably recording it for future use. He turns from watching that door, now firmly closed, to look at Skinner's face. It's a mistake, but fuck it, who cares now, so he raises a gentle hand and presses it to Skinner's cheek. "I'm sorry," he says. Skinner only closes his eyes for a few seconds, then steers Mulder toward the door.

"Let's get out of here."

I have always wanted to live in San Francisco. It's expensive as hell, but Jesus, it's beautiful. Out on Ocean Beach, shrouded in the soft fogs of morning and evening. I jog along the beach each morning, stopping to buy two coffees on the way home. Starbucks.

We live in a duplex. Mulder and I both have money, none earned particularly honestly, since his comes from his father, but money's money, it's guiltless. Only the men who own it are guilty.

We're a fucking cliche now. I love it. New names, new lives, new everything. Thank god for email; Mulder can stay in touch with the people he loves, and yes, I know he loves Skinner as well as Scully. It's okay. I'm better for him. With me, he expiates his guilt. I'm useful that way.

Mulder feels guilty about Skinner, I know. I think something happened between them while I was away, but I haven't asked what. I'm not sure I will. There has always been that tension between the two men. But Mulder's mine now. Domestic partner.

He's writing those memoirs he promised not to. That's my doing, too. After all, Skinner will retire one day, and Scully is clearly going places. Soon there won't be a need to protect either of them. I have a little say in these things. Might as well get the book ready.

He likes being a writer. He wears those glasses and looks sexy in tee shirts and tight jeans. I cook and have managed to put a little weight on him. That's why *I'm* running.

I rely on my computer skills for income. Guess I'm the fourth gunman, now. In absentia. Plus Multimedia Gulch is a short Muni ride away, when the fuckers are running. I'm writing code for a game aimed at teenage males, working title: Secret Agent Man. Pretty cool, or as they say out here, ka-zow.

Plus Mulder turns out to have a fan who works for the FAA, some guy named Esperanza. Spanish for "hope." He's seen shit that not even Mulder can believe. He's emailing me wonderful stuff; we have an active correspondence. I slip it back to the three musketeers and we figure it out. We figure it out.

I'd like to take Mulder to the Highlands someday. Sunset over the Skara Brae in late summer is something he should see, and the Ring of Brogar, and the stone tower of Mousa in the Shetlands. We'd get a room in the Brae Hotel and lie snuggled together; it's cold and wet there, dreary even in summer, though the sun slants under the clouds in late evening, gleaming silver against the sky and sea. I still wear that damn needle in my coat collar; it brought me home to Mulder, after all.

I've thought about writing my memoirs as well, but, hell. Nobody would believe.

I mean, do you?

* * *

All my information about Ireland and Scotland came from various travel books, especially Fodor's Ireland 1992 and Fodor's Scotland 1988, plus some brochures I picked up at a neighborhood travel agency.

Information about the Swissair flight came from the MUFON Journal, no. 277, September 1999, 3-9. J. Allen Hynek's theory of collective amnesia was reprinted in The Psychic Reader, vol. 24, no. 10, October 1999, 5.


End file.
